


Messages in Yeast

by hufflepirate



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Baking, Bread, Character Study, Character of Faith, Friendship, Gen, Insomnia, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:04:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflepirate/pseuds/hufflepirate
Summary: When Caduceus finds himself back at home with 5 friends and 0 of the solutions he'd gone looking for, he can feel the pressure of how wrong it is. Baking helps. So does talking out what his friends are to him.





	Messages in Yeast

The hollow screaming at the back of Caduceus's head wasn't a voice as much as a feeling. He wasn't meant to be back here. He wasn't meant to be back at home without a solution to the problem. He wasn't meant to be hiding like this.

He rolled over in the darkness and then got up, giving up on sleep. It was getting late enough. Late enough to get up. Late enough that if he started the bread now, it would still be warm at breakfast, and if he were lucky, the Nein wouldn't work out just how early he'd gotten up.

He wasn't sure what was stranger, walking past his sisters' room and hearing Beau and Jester's familiar breath, calmer than usual, or walking past his parents' room and hearing Fjord's soft snores. He'd gotten used to sleeping alone in the room he used to share with his brothers, but walking through the building with other people here was... different. He shivered a little bit. He felt at home here, because it was home, and he felt at home here because his friends were here, and somehow there was still something underneath it all that was - not home. The two feelings, home and not-home, swirled around under the skin of his upper back, making him squirm, and he walked a little faster to get to the kitchen. It would be better in the kitchen. Things were always better in kitchens.

When he stepped in through the kitchen door, everything was blissfully silent for 25 seconds before the howling feeling in the back of his head came back. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here. Here was for someone else. For some time else. For before. For later. Not for now. He moved again, before the skin crawl feeling could come back.

He opened the window to let the early-morning breeze in and took a deep breath of the cool air. It didn't smell quite the way it used to, not with the corruption in the woods so much closer. But it helped a little bit, and working with the yeast, coaxing it along into life, helped more.

Bread was complicated and absorbing, life and death in microcosm, yeast growing in the warmth only to die in the heat, consuming and creating, swelling and building and collapsing, and he could almost breathe again as he lost himself in thinking about it, could almost tune out the hollow feeling behind his ears.

Kneading the dough was soothing, too, and for a moment, it was enough. For a moment, things were good. Manageable. But then he had to leave the dough alone to rise, and the howling silence was back.

This was different than it had been before. The Wildmother had gone quiet, on the road, but she'd never cut him off like this. The magic was still there, the connection to nature, and he knew she understood at least a little bit, but she was still icing him out, and it was hard. Almost too hard.

He looked around the kitchen for a moment, but he couldn't reasonably cook the rest of breakfast yet. Not with the stars still out. Not with the moon still up. Not with so much rising and baking left to do on the bread. He couldn't keep cooking, and going outside would just remind him that he'd failed to find a solution to the problem, that he'd come back to a worse situation than he'd left, with nothing to show for it.

Instead, he walked slowly back through the house, checking on his friends and trying not to wake them and hoping that getting closer to them would bring back the home feeling.

This had been meant to be just a brief stop. He'd wanted to see his home, as much from curiosity as from missing it, but they hadn't meant to stay here. Not more than a night. Certainly not for this many days. It was just hard to push the group along when they seemed so _comfortable_ here.

He leaned against the wall beside Jester and Beau's door, listening to them breathe. The stonework around the door was as solid as ever, but the wood was long warped and had come open on its own again. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound as if the fact that he'd come to care about Beau and Jester could be enough to counteract the emptiness at the back of his head.

It couldn't, but it was better than nothing.

Farther down the hall, Fjord snored just loud enough to be audible through his door, and that was soothing for a moment, too, soothing enough that he thought, for a moment, that he might be able to fall asleep like this, leaning against the wall outside, but the calm didn't last.

He glanced back over his shoulder toward the kitchen when the feeling got to be too much again, but he knew it hadn't been long enough to go back, so he climbed upward instead, hoping that looking down on the garden from above would make it easier to focus on Caleb and Nott's tiny hut instead of the encroaching contagion pushing into his space.

He couldn't hear Caleb and Nott from here, but as strange as it was that they'd insisted on sleeping outside, as strange as it was that even after all this time off the ship, Nott _still_ insisted on touching the ground as often as she could, he knew they were more relaxed here in the Blooming Grove than they'd been anywhere for a while. He could see it in their eyes, could tell they were sleeping better and deeper from the way they looked in the mornings here.

He couldn't tell in the faint starlight what color Caleb had made the little dome tonight, but if the other nights were any indication, it was probably a familiar shade of pink, standing out stark and fanciful in the graveyard even though the lichen Caleb had based it on made its home here naturally. Here and other places. He ran his hands through his hair, absentmindedly.

It was a strain on his eyes trying to pick out what he could in the dark, but there was something relieving about it. "I'm gonna leave again," he whispered, hoping the Wildmother was listening, like she always had before. "I promise. But I have to believe that if these people are really the ones I'm supposed to be -"

He paused, because even after all this time, he wasn't sure he knew _what_ they were doing, as a group. They had plans, maybe, some of them and some of the time. But it was hard to know what it added up to. It was hard to know if it meant anything. But if he was going to keep believing the Wildmother understood, he might as well keep believing she wouldn't mind a little silence while he thought about it.

He sensed it was time to go downstairs before he had any idea how to finish his sentence.

Getting his hands back on the dough was good, and knowing there was only one more rise was good, and the second time he was waiting he knew what he was trying to figure out, and at least there was that. At least that was clarity, of a sort.

Once he'd started a fire in the oven, to get it heated and ready, he watched the second rise, letting his eyes rest half-focused on the loaf. The passage of time wasn't so terrible, for this rise, and that was a relief. He felt himself calming down and getting closer to an answer.

He wasn't sure how long it had been when he started talking again, but he knew, this time, that the Wildmother was listening. She _had_ to be. He could feel the bread rising as he watched it, could feel the yeast living and consuming and excreting, and feeling it in his bones _had_ to mean she was there.

"Anyway," he said, as if he'd never stopped, "They're the ones who came here. They're the ones who felt right. I haven't - I haven't done this all the way yet. I haven't done what I'm supposed to do yet. But they're here and they're _for_ me, and that means I have to take care of them. Jester can do it -" he stopped. "No. Jester _could_ do it, and she _did_ do it, but it's not - she's got her own things, and she loves them, but she's not -"

He felt understood, in spite of his faltering. He kept going, moving past the moment of confusion, past losing the words again. "I'm supposed to be a caretaker," he said, "That's what I was always going to be and I _will_ be one, right here, again, once I've done it, but I have to take care of them, too. And they need to be here right now. I didn't think they did, because I haven't - I haven't fixed it yet. But they're here and I can see it in them that they need to be here right now. I don't, but they do."

He still didn't understand that. He still didn't know what it meant, that they'd slept in inns that didn't make them this calm. He didn't know what it meant that they'd said they didn't mind dropping by his home and then instead of dropping by, they'd settled in like this. He didn't know how long they planned to stay, or if planning had anything to do with it at all. He didn't know what they wanted, what they needed, other than that right now, what they needed was here, and right now (maybe always) what they needed was him.

The dough had risen under his gaze, but it had risen too fast. It was the right size to go into the oven now, but it shouldn't be. He lost track of time a lot, but not _that_ much time. And he'd made enough bread to know the difference.

He turned toward the window, smiling slowly. He didn't see anything outside the window, but that didn't mean she wasn't there. There was _something_ , still, something he felt looking out toward the graveyard again, and the bread could go in the oven and it was the time for it, and that had to mean that for all the emptiness outside the window, she was still here, just out of reach.

The darkness outside seemed just a little less deep, the stars a little less obvious. It wasn't dawn yet. Not quite. But it was coming. He was on the edge of it. He needed the bread in the oven, now, if it was going to make it out in time for his friends to wake up. And, implausibly, it had risen enough. His brain couldn't wrap around it. Couldn't wrap around it. Caught it again.

He knew he lost time, sometimes, lost track of it and let it slip by almost without him, but this was a sign. A half sign. A moment of favor. He'd been forgiven, or at least understood, and whether that silence aching at the back of his skull had been a punishment or just a push, he could sense that it was over now.

He wondered, absently, if that meant his friends would be ready to leave today. It would be sad, if they were leaving today. It would be a relief. It would be a lot of things at once, but that seemed to be normal, for the world, that things should be a lot all at once.

He slid the bread into the oven and then stepped closer to the window again. There was a definite faint glow to the east, not a sunrise, but the sign of one. Not the same kind of sign, but maybe the same amount of sign, and that seemed good enough proof that he was reading things right.

He had things to do, now. Breakfast to make. Friends to feed. To ask about their night. To pretend toward, like he'd slept too. He settled into the work feeling better. He was going to make them move on. He was going to make them do _something_ to help his forest. But first -

"They're yours now, too, aren't they?" he asked, quietly, "Because they're mine? I know they don't - I know Jester's got the Traveler and some of the others have their own gods, but - you sent them to me, and they're mine now. And you can't have sent them if they weren't yours, too, I don't think. And I wouldn't know how to take care of them if they weren't yours, because that's what my job is."

He didn't get an answer, but one sign was enough. Half a sign was enough. The quieting of the horrible deafening silent roar in his head was enough.

"It's a lot to figure out," he said, "It's a _lot_. But I always knew there would be more, one day. I always knew there would be more to look after than just these grounds. I thought it would be the forest, and maybe it will be, but it's also these - these people. These... friends. I have to learn how to do both. I have to figure it out. But I'm - I think I can do it. And I think I'm not the only one, trying to do both. I know I'm not the only one. I'm not sure, sometimes, why you sent them to me, when they're trying to do so much at once, so many _things_ all on top of each other. But you did, and I -"

He glanced at the window again, just in case. The glow in the east was brighter. Sometimes, the others rose early. He should work on breakfast. "I don't think it's bad, picking them first," he said, "Is it?"

There was no answer, but the soft silence was still new, and the angry silence was still recent, and he backtracked. "I won't always pick them first. Just... just now. Just today. Or maybe just yesterday."

A rustling sound outside the window drew him out of his thoughts, and he knew instinctively that it wasn't the Wildmother. It was something more concrete than that.

He rotated his ears to listen backward as he kept working, focusing on the rustle until it quieted and then waiting for it to start up again so that he could work out what it was.

The window creaked softly, opening farther, and he smiled into the vegetables he was chopping.

There was another silence, and then, quickly, and so quietly he wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening, a rustle and the sounds of light footfalls coming in through the window.

More silence, and he swiveled his ears a little bit, just in case. Two more footfalls. Quiet. Almost, but not quite, timed with the sound of his knife against the cutting board. Footsteps moving toward the stove. "It's not as ready as it smells," he said, "And it's not ready to be turned yet. Don't let the heat out."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Nott said, her voice pitched just a hair too high, "I was just coming in for a drink of water, and to refill Caleb's water skin. He can't leave the hut once it's up, you know. And sometimes he gets thirsty, but he isn't ready to get up for the day yet."

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" he asked, "You've all been sleeping so well since we got here."

He looked around to watch her answer, this time, and he was glad he had, because he caught the shrug. "I wake up early a lot. It doesn't mean anything."

"No," he said, "I suppose not."

"And anyway," the goblin continued, stepping closer now that he'd looked around at her, " _You're_ awake, and you've probably been up for a while."

"I had - some things to figure out," he answered.

Nott's eyes narrowed, and he knew she wanted more specifics, but by the time he could sort through them to work out what to say and what to keep to himself, she'd grown impatient. "What kind of things?" she prompted.

"Just... things. It's strange being home again, when I haven't figured out how to fix the problem. It's strange still being here, when we meant to leave, and I'm happy to have you all staying here, but I'm - it's not where I'm supposed to be anymore. Not when the answer isn't here."

When Nott didn't answer right away, he looked over at her again. She was staring at the stove, like she was tempted to open the oven door again.

"Staring at the oven won't make it cook any faster," he said, putting down one knife and picking up another as he switched tasks, moving from veggies to fruit.

"What if it does?"

 _Then it's another sign_ , he thought to himself, but he wasn't sure he knew how to explain what the first sign had been.

"Then it's time to leave," he finally answered, after too long a pause.

Nott turned back toward him. "Is that how it works, then? You and your - thing. Does -" she looked over her shoulder at the oven and then stepped closer, lowering her voice, "Does the bread predict the future?"

He thought about it. "The bread is - complicated. And so is life. And sometimes they're the same thing."

"And the other times?"

"Then they're different things."

Nott laughed, but he'd known her long enough to know it was at least half cover. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the peach in his hands, watching him peel the fuzz away. "And are peaches the same thing as life?" she asked.

He grinned, sideways. "Well, they're alive. Or - they were."

Nott scooted closer. "But do they _tell_ you things?"

He turned the peach around in his hands, staring at it. "I suppose they could," he answered, then gave the peach one more long glance and flipped it abruptly into the air in front of Nott.

She caught it, her hands squishing into the flesh of the fruit on the peeled side.

She bit into it fast, and then there was juice on her face to match the juice on her hands.

"Did it say anything?" he asked.

She'd taken a second bite in the time it took him to ask the question, even bigger than the first, and her voice was mangled as she answered, "I don't think sho. What should it have shaid?"

He stared at the peaches he hadn't peeled yet, then at Nott, then at the oven. She kept eating, watching him look around, more patient this time now that she had food in hand.

"I think it should have said not to open the oven and let the heat out. But anyway, it _is_ time to turn it now, so it'll bake evenly around the coals. Don't touch it."

Nott backed up, out of his way, and let him turn the loaf in the oven without interfering. It wasn't until he was closing the oven door again that a sudden rapid set of footfalls alerted him that that didn't mean she was done causing trouble. She was climbing out the window and jumping into the bushes before he realized she'd stolen the rest of the fruit, and after a moment, all he could do was laugh.

"I suppose you and the Traveler are sharing her, aren't you?" he asked the Wildmother, "Her and Jester both." He didn't get an answer, all the way, but something in the oven seemed to sigh as the heat settled again, steadying now that the door was closed, and that was close enough.

He looked back over his workstation, trying to think of an alternative to the peaches, and found himself in good spirits for the first time since they'd gotten back. The forest was coming in, and he hadn't fixed it, and he didn't have an answer, but he had a family again, of sorts, and he had two projects at once, and Nott was happy, and Caleb would be fed, and the others would have fresh bread when they got up, and his head was a good kind of quiet again, a soft kind of quiet, and not so angry, and it was enough.

"We'll leave tomorrow," he said to no one. That was enough, too. Now he just had to make it come true.


End file.
